


Ceci n'est pas un cliché

by ninamalfoy



Category: Football RPF
Genre: M/M, unbetaed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-07-19
Updated: 2010-07-19
Packaged: 2017-10-10 16:27:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/101762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ninamalfoy/pseuds/ninamalfoy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A short moment in the life of Hansi Flick.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ceci n'est pas un cliché

**Author's Note:**

> First posted on LJ on November 22nd, 2007.
> 
> Not true in the least bit. I'm just borrowing their public persona to play.

Assistant coach never is an easy job. Hansi Flick sighed, rubbing a hand over his face blearily. He'd gotten stuck with the menial jobs, leafing through reports and statistics and much more, having to condense them for Jogi for the next team meeting.

And now there was another informal meeting, one of these team-building get-togethers, as Jogi called them, wanting to sound out the general team atmosphere, always on the lookout for any awkwardness or weirdness. Yawning, Hansi shuffled the papers together and slipped them into the tray on his desk. He'd get to them later. First, the team meeting.

The conference room was brightly lit - almost too - and Hansi blinked against the flare of the LED lights. The flipchart was still covered in last time's drawings and scribbles, preparing the team for the upcoming test match. It was just a test match, not really worth all that much effort, but Jogi and Urs believed in doing things 200 per cent.

No one there yet. Hansi slumped into his accustomed seat in the front, yawning again. Damn, he was tired.

He jerked awake when the door fell shut with a loud bang. "This is so not me!" Torsten Frings walked into the room, complaining loudly while being followed by Michael Ballack who was rolling his eyes. Nothing unusual there - _wait_.

Torsten - Torsten was wearing the most appalling get-up he had ever seen the defensive midfielder in. He did wear a lot of hip-hop clothes, these oversized basketball shirts and whatever else, but this... Torsten's neck wasn't even visible under all these fat gleaming necklaces, turning him into a giant human chandelier or, more appropriate, a disco ball. The huge baseball cap made Hansi's eyes hurt with all the glitter - diamonds everywhere, and there was a huge fat golden 'T' in front.

"At least you are wearing _something_," Michael grumbled, and Hansi diverted his attention from Torsten's bling-bling to - to a rather, er. Inappropriately dressed captain of the squad. _Very_ inappropriate, at that. Hansi hoped that the very, very little... something in black wouldn't snap. Or disintegrate. Michael was crossing his arms over his chest, seeming rather disgruntled. Hansi supposed anyone would be if they would be wearing only a g-string. And considering Michael's, er, rather large appendage, it was positively a wonder everything seemed to fit in there.

Torsten sighed. "All this is fucking going to break my neck. And when you don't have your chest shaved, it's fucking uncomfortable when your hair catches - ow!" He eased a hand underneath all the jewelry, hissing through his teeth.

Michael snorted. "But you're not freezing." He rubbed his arms. "Sex symbol and all, fucking okay, but this?"

The door opened again behind them and then the nasal voice of Timo Hildebrand could be heard. "I had to start four fucking hours ago to get them like that, fucking - oh, hey Micha. Looking sharp."

"_Nice_ hair, Timo," Michael replied, grinning. "Can I touch it?" He held a hand out, but Timo ducked underneath it, "don't you dare!"

Torsten plonked himself down in a chair, sighing and rubbing his neck. "Four hours? I would've said eight, at least."

Now that Torsten's jewelred chest didn't put a strain on his overtired eyes anymore, Hansi could take in Timo fully. The goalie was dressed in something very garish and tight-fitting, complementing it with tight jeans - well, nothing new there. But his hair - well, yes, Hansi could see why Michael would've wanted to touch it. It was perfectly coiffed and every single strand was placed in just the right spot to achieve that 'carefree but styled' look, not a single hair out of place and gleaming in the light like a golden helmet.

Hansi shook his head to clear his mind. Golden helmet? He must be more tired than he thought.

But... there was something. On Timo's right leg. A little monkey?

The others had noticed as well. "Timo, what... is that?" Torsten. Always right to the point, no delicate or elaborate wording. Blunt.

Timo sighed. "Don't you recognize him? It's Philipp."

"Philipp?" Michael blinked. "What is the matter with him?"

"Nothing - only that he clings to me everywhere. Anywhere. You wouldn't believe how difficult it is when he wants to play ping-pong like this," Timo sighed. "And let's not even talk about showering."

"Yeah," Torsten grinned. "I can see how that would be... er, difficult. Phil, c'mon, let's go of pretty Timo."

"Nooo!" A wail pierced the air and Hansi jerked. "Timo is _mine_!"

"Ow, Phil," Timo complained, "my leg needs blood circulation! It's already itching like a giant ant hive. Or whatever."

Loud, audible sniffles. "But I love you, Timo."

Timo sighed and smiled. "Of course you do, Phil. Even when you're making my favorite slackers wet."

Torsten dug around in his trouser pockets. "Here." A scrumpled-up tissue package flew towards Timo, who shrieked and grappled wildly only to catch it just when it was about to touch his hair.

"Damnit, Torsten! Not the _Hair_!" Timo glared at the older man who just shrugged and lifted his hand to scratch - his jewellery.

Hansi knew that he was staring at them, feeling this distinct slackness in his jaw. Drugs. The only explanation.

"Anyone in there?" There was no mistaking the deep voice. Christoph Metzelder. Metze.

The tall dark-haired defender ambled into the room, raising an eyebrow at Michael's outfit (or rather, lack of an outfit), whistling impressed. "How did you manage that, Micha?"

Michael rolled his eyes and pulled up a chair to sit next to Torsten. "You don't really want to know."

Metze laughed, and Hansi felt something in his chest loosen. At least, someone _normal_. Even when Metze was ogling Michael in a rather blatant way. But then, this was Michael Ballack. Anyone would ogle him, no matter what gender, age or sexual preference.

"Nice hair, Timo," Metze complimented the goalie. "What did you use?"

Apparently this was the cue for Michael and Torsten to roll their eyes simultaneously (and for Philipp to look up to Timo with puppy eyes, sniffling still a bit).

"... only Evian, mind, and at the exactly right temperature, and the must-have is the John Frieda Brilliant Blonde styling gel, but take care to -"

"Finally," someone grunted, edging into the room. Who it was, Hansi couldn't yet make out because he was balancing a load of scrolls in his arms, obscuring his face entirely.

"What took you so long, Kehli?" asked Metze. "I thought you were behind me all the time."

"Yeah, you try carrying all this at once," and Sebastian Kehl unceremoniously dumped the scrolls on the table at the back of the room. "Hey everyone."

Michael raised an eyebrow. "What's all that?"

It took quite a long time to get Basti to answer. Well, Hansi suspected, it was rather partly Micha's fault for choosing that moment to spread his legs. And flexing his abs just a bit.

"Uh, well, these are all Metze's latest honorary diplomas. He wanted to ask Oliver what to do with them."

Timo raised his eyebrows. "Framing them would be the answer. No need to ask Bierhoff."

Metze snorted. "I've got diplomas everywhere at home. Even on the fucking ceiling. In the bathroom. The attic. I've even thought about using them as wallpaper."

Basti nodded. "But it clashes with the furniture. And the bed linens. Especially with the wine-red satin ones. And our collection of tacky holiday souvenirs from Ibiza."

And then - then something strange happened. Or not so strange. Hansi couldn't decide which category it should belong in, because it seemed oddly fitting, even under all these drug-induced circumstances.

Metze was kissing Basti. And it wasn't even a brotherly kiss (although neither of them were actually Italian or doing the whole bloodbrother routine), no - it was a rather passionate one. Slow, languid and intense - and everyone else ignored them, Timo reaching down and petting Philipp's head and Michael leaning over to Torsten to whisper something to the fellow midfielder.

Although with the way Michael was inching his hand underneath Torsten's assorted jewellery, this didn't seem like buddy whispering. If there was such a thing as buddy whispering.

Loud knocks on the door, but everyone seemed not to notice it. The knocking grew louder and louder until the wooden frame was practically shaking, and Timo was now gently stroking Philipp's cheek, the small defender having crawled up into Timo's lap, and Metze and Basti were still kissing, although there were now hands involved. And shirts pulled out of waistbands. Michael and Torsten, on the other hand, were apparently busy exploring their bodies and Hansi couldn't help watching fascinated as Torsten's thumb hooked under the thin strip of black fabric on Micha's hip.

BANG!

Hansi jerked up, blinking, and - oh. He had fallen asleep on his desk, and if he wasn't mistaken, there was a copious amount of drooling on some reports.

It had all been only a dream. Fucking crazy. But at least he was relieved that there was no grounds for a drug search.

But - BANG!

Oh, _damn it_. Hansi hurried to the door and opened it. In front of him stood an irate Jogi - a rare sight, and Hansi winced. "The team meeting started half a hour ago and we're all waiting for you!"

Fuck.

 

the end


End file.
